The transition is approaching. I can sense it.
We’ve already bid farewell to the bottle, the Boppy, and the days of baby-wearing. My breast pump now collects dust at the top of the closet—its rhythmic whomp-whomp still echoes in my memories. The light at the end of the tunnel is no longer a mere flicker; it’s shining brightly, signaling the end of life with little ones. We are on the brink of moving beyond the baby phase.
To an outsider, it might seem like we still have a ways to go. My youngest, for instance, is still very much a baby, and my eldest won’t start school until next fall. However, I can feel it in my core as a mother. My daughter insists on choosing her own outfits now, she’s taken to “helping” with the laundry, and she’s discovered the joy of coloring on walls instead of paper. Toddlerhood has fully arrived, bringing with it both delightful moments and new challenges. While folding laundry, I find myself pausing to distinguish between my socks and my son’s—when did his feet grow so large?
Yes, the next chapter is fast approaching. This should be a source of relief, right? A shift in our family dynamics is imminent. In the realm of motherhood, there’s often a special kind of admiration for those navigating the chaos of young children. “Oh, I remember those days all too well,” they say, acknowledging the bags under our eyes and our frazzled appearance. They empathize because they recall the sleepless nights, the endless cycle of colds from fall through spring, and the relentless demands of feeding, diapering, and simply keeping everyone alive—days when it felt like the weight of it all could crush you.
“Hang in there. It gets easier,” they offer, with a comforting touch on the shoulder.
Yet here I stand, teetering on the edge of “easier,” captivated by all that it promises—more sleep, time for showers, and perhaps even the chance to rediscover hobbies that have felt foreign to me. But as I glance back at the life I know—the baby years, with their overwhelming demands—I find myself holding on tighter. Just a little while longer, I think. I want them to need me with such intensity for a bit more time.
In fact, I even suggested to my husband the possibility of having a third child, a notion he gently but firmly returned to me. I understand his reasoning; it’s not so much a wish to remain in this phase as it is a fear of what lies ahead. This has been the most challenging period of my life, pushing me beyond my limits. I’ve learned to exist in a state of depletion—just enough energy to survive the day, collapsing into bed until the cycle begins anew. But soon, there will be moments for so much more.
And maybe, if I’m being truthful, that’s what I fear the most—not being ready to evolve beyond being just a mom. I’ll have to pursue dreams I’ve shelved while chasing after little ones. I might lose the excuses that have allowed me to neglect my own identity.
“Roots and wings” is my mantra as I navigate motherhood—a reminder that all my nurturing efforts are meant to prepare them for independence. Yet perhaps there’s a promise for me within that sentiment, too. Roots and wings, Mama. This chapter with young children isn’t my sole identity. My roots run deeper than this stage. A version of me existed before them, and I will reconnect with her again.
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In summary, as I stand on the brink of change, I grapple with the bittersweet nature of transition from the baby years. While there’s promise of relief ahead, I also feel a deep attachment to the life I’ve known. Embracing the journey ahead will require letting go and rediscovering who I am beyond motherhood.